Moving Day
by katkin
Summary: Today was the day that Sherlock Holmes had never expected to come around. In all his stubbornness and astuteness he had predicted  rather incorrectly  that the events of the day were not going to occur. Today was John Watson's moving day.
1. Chapter 1

A two-part comedy fic I wrote ages ago and forgot to upload. Hope you enjoy.

I haven't written a disclaimer for ages: Sherlock isn't mine. If it were, Series 2 would be here by now!

* * *

Today was the day that Sherlock Holmes had never expected to come around. In all his stubbornness and astuteness he had predicted (rather incorrectly) that the events of the day were not going to occur.

It was a Saturday. Of course, that wasn't what Sherlock was incorrect about. Saturday had followed Friday as it so often does. No, it was not just any old Saturday. Today was John Watson's moving day.

Sherlock lay in a foetal position on the sofa, in his pyjamas and dressing gown. His head was shoved firmly into the back of the sofa, in an attempted to block out the footsteps and clamour that had begun at 8 o'clock that morning. He wouldn't help. He refused to. Why should he exert his energy on packing when it was much more therapeutic to sulk?

Sherlock heard voices in the hall; Mrs Hudson chatting excitedly with Traitor Watson, or What's-his-name, as Sherlock had decided to call him, from the moment he left the house for good. Why were they laughing? This was not good news. This was not fun or exciting, it was noisy and laborious, and Sherlock was adamant that What's-his-name would regret it. As adamant as he had been that he wouldn't be moving out in the first place.

It wasn't that he was going to miss John (What's-his-name), Sherlock decided firmly. Sure, he laughed at Sherlock's jokes (and sometimes when he hadn't even been joking, which was odd.) And when Sherlock said 'Jump', John would not ask 'How high?' or even 'Why?' like the Scotland Yard morons, but 'From where?' and 'Can we jump again?'. It was all good fun. _Had _been good fun. Now he was moving out. Selfish bastard.

Sherlock was grumpy, and not because What's-his-name was ditching him for a woman (Dull!) but because John always did the hoovering, and took the rubbish out, and answered the phone. Who was going to do those things now? Sherlock mused over the thought that, if he suddenly offered to help with the packing, John might pop in once a day to put the kettle on or bring the post up from downstairs. He couldn't bring himself to move, so he didn't bother.

Instead, he listened to the dull thuds of a suitcase being dragged down the wooden staircase, and Mrs Hudson's laugh at something that Watson bloke had said. Stupid Watson bloke, stupid Mrs Hudson, stupid staircase.

John had entered the kitchen and begun to rummage around in the cupboards. Sherlock lifted his head from the sofa, a frown etched on his face.

"That's my wok!" he bellowed his first words of the day.

"Uh, no it isn't," came the response from the kitchen. Sherlock huffed loudly, and then again in case it hadn't been heard.

"I think you'll find it has my name on it," Sherlock said in a surly tone. He was pleased with it. John scoffed and shuffled to the living room, wok in hand.

"Who writes their name on their wok...correction, someone else's wok?"

"I do," he said curtly. "To save confrontations such as this one."

John stood with his mouth open defensively. He sighed.

"You don't even cook!" Sherlock blinked at him. "Fine, do you know what Sherlock, you can keep it. My gift to you." He slammed it onto the coffee table. Sherlock turned his head away and curled up again. "I'm sure Sarah has one anyway," John said as he walked away. Bastard.

Sherlock stayed there for several hours, pretending to sleep as he listened to John struggling to carry boxes down the stairs. Mrs Hudson was in the kitchen having a wipe around. He thought he should probably warn her about the acid he'd spilled a couple of days before. He couldn't be bothered.

Eventually Sherlock heard feet walk slowly to a halt at the living room door. John was lingering there in hesitation as he looked around the room. It was still full of stuff, just not his stuff. Sherlock Holmes was the King of Stuff. John sighed loudly.

"I know you're awake."

Sherlock gave a grunt.

"I'm heading off now."

Silence.

"Here..." Sherlock didn't look up but he felt John move nearer to the sofa and he knew he'd placed his key down on the sofa arm. Sherlock gritted his teeth. Now he'd have to go downstairs to let him in if he ever came over. Selfish!

"I've put some ready meals in the fridge for you. You need to cook them before you eat them." Patronising bastard. "Oh and here, before I forget..."

Sherlock lifted his head at the sound of rustling paper. He turned at glared at John as he held out a wad of notes.

"What's that for?"

"Cabs."

"How_ dare_ you! Who do you think I am?" Sherlock growled but snatched the money and shoved it into his dressing gown pocket. John gave a small smile. He was so predictable.

"Well...bye then." Silence. "I'll call you later."

"Don't bother," Sherlock mumbled into the sofa. John sighed loudly and headed to the stairs. Sherlock heard him saying his goodbyes to Mrs Hudson who was snivelling and throwing her arms around What's-his-name. Sherlock didn't want to remember his name anymore. It was time to make more space in the hard-drive.

Footsteps trotted down the stairs and Sherlock heard the door bang, followed by a taxi door. For a brief moment there was peace until Mrs Hudson entered, her voice high with annoyance.

"Honestly, Sherlock! That was so rude of you. The poor boy was saying goodbye. He's going to miss you."

"Urgh!" A pillow was pinned to Sherlock head with both hands. "He'll be back when he's realised how dull she is."

"Sherlock, it's been three years. They're finally going to make a go of things. I think it's nice."

"Urgh!" Nice. What a mundane word.

"Pull yourself together," Mrs Hudson said, her tone clipped. "I won't have you sulking around the house all day."

"Go away then."

"Fine, but you'd better be dressed by the time I get back. Oh, and your tea will be ready at 6."

"I'm not hungry." She began to walk away, and he lifted his head to regard her, his hair unkempt from idle lounging. "What are we having?"

"Lasagne," she told him as she walked away.

A pause.

"Fine!"


	2. Chapter 2

The evening had been non-eventful, much to John's delight. Sarah had cooked, and he had chuckled when she had stressed firmly that he wasn't to expect it every evening. After they had eaten and cleared away together, they watched a film. It was all _very_ normal. John hadn't checked his phone once.

As he watched the rom-com with half-interest, he felt Sarah's eyes on him, and turned to regard her, her head lying comfortably on his shoulder.

"Are you ok?" she asked him in a quiet voice.

"Hmm? Yeah, of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?"

"John." She sat up to regard him. "It's ok to be sad you know. You've closed a significant chapter in your life."

John blinked at her. He felt surprised by the strange pang in his stomach and he knew what it meant. There was a part of him, deep inside, that thought of the 'chapter' as dog-eared rather than closed. Could he really not pick up that bookmark and continue where he'd left off?

He smiled at her weakly.

"I'm fine."

"I'm just saying. It was your home, your life, for three years. It's ok to miss it."

_Him_. Miss him.

"I know it's fine."

"How about we invite Sherlock over in the near future?"

"He wouldn't come," John stated plainly. His eyes moved back to the film in the hope that Sarah would drop the subject.

"Oh. Ok."

They continued to watch the film in silence John put his arm around Sarah, pulling her close. This wasn't so bad, was it? He had a perfect girlfriend, a lovely flat, a job that was bearable. John smiled to himself at how lucky he was, and gave Sarah a kiss on the top of her head for good measure. This, right here, was real life.

When the film was over, they stumbled sleepily to Sarah's bed. _Their_ bed, he reminded himself. John was very much looking forward to a good night's sleep.

"You don't play violin do you?" he asked Sarah as she turned off the light.

"No," she laughed. "Why do you ask?"

"Oh, no reason."

John breathed deeply. Silence and sleep encompassed him.

* * *

It was 2:13am on the digital clock display beside John's bed. His eyes snapped open suddenly as a ringing noise filled the room. Beside him, he heard Sarah groan.

"What is that noise?" she mumbled into the pillow.

"Uh, I think it's my phone."

John reached over to his discarded jeans, and fumbled into the pocket.

**Caller: Sherlock Holmes.**

"Who is it?" Sarah asked, her voice clearer as she sat up. She squinted at the light from the phone.

"No-one."

"Is it Sherlock?"

John's mind raced at a relatively impressive speed considering he'd just woken up. He could lie and say he didn't know who it was. He could reject the call and turn his phone off. But then Sherlock would ring the land line. Did he know the land line number? Of course he did. Or John could just answer the call and see what his sociopathic best friend could possibly have to say at 2:13am in the morning.

John rejected the call, and cringed as he saw 5 unread text messages.

New message:  
1:37am  
John. Something's wrong. Don't panic but I may need your assistance.  
SH

New message:  
1:43am  
Ok. Panic a little. Where are you?  
SH

New message:  
1:49am  
Perhaps I'm not stressing the urgency enough. I need your help! (P.S bring milk.) (P.P.S Are shops open at 2am? If not, bring milk from your flat.)

New message:  
1:56am  
John. John. John. John. John. John. John.

New message:  
2:04am  
Right. That's it. I'm phoning the police.

John cringed and ran a hand over his tired face. So much for a night of continuous sleep! He should have known it was too much to have hoped for. The phone began to ring again, and John heard Sarah throw her head down heavily onto the bed, and growl as she pinned a pillow over her ears. John took a deep breath as he accepted the call.

"I could be dead, I hope you know," came the voice from the other end of the line. John gritted his teeth together.

"Well, clearly you aren't."

"Well deduced Doctor."

John frowned.

"You're not drunk are you?"

"No... Why? Are you?"

"No. Sherlock, what's the problem? It's 2:15 in the morning and we were asleep."

"I need your help, John. I think I might have broken the house." There was a large thump, and John had the strongest urge to ask Sherlock Holmes if he'd just fallen off his chair. He refrained.

"John, I need help. I've phoned the police but they said I was wasting their time. How rude! After all I've done for...Oh, hell! John, help!"

There came a scuffling noise, followed by a loud metallic bang.

"Sherlock? Sherlock!" The line was dead. John sat on the edge of the bed, staring down at his phone.

"Sarah..."

"No."

"I have to go."

"No, John!" She sat up suddenly in bed, and although the room was dark, he could make out the outline of her face. "He's a grown man. If he's lonely, that's his problem. If he's burnt off his eyebrows, _again_, that's his problem. It's 2:20am. Come back to bed."

John bit his lip and cringed. Slowly, he rose from the bed and began to fumble for his clothes.

"I can't. I'm sorry. It's just this once." He knew she didn't believe him. He didn't believe himself. He gave her a kiss on the forehead and headed for the door.

* * *

The front door of 221b Baker Street was wrenched open by a fraught Sherlock Holmes. John noticed that the man was dressed, so he must have left the house at some point between John leaving at 1pm the afternoon before, and now, at 2:45am.

"Urgency!" he greeted in irritation, before turning and running back up the stairs. John shut the door behind him and followed. He heard various mumblings on the way up the 17 steps towards the flat which included: "Kitchen...Bored...Accident...Did you bring the milk?"

As John took a step onto the landing carpet, he heard it squelch under foot. He looked down and saw that the carpet was drenched. Sherlock had waded his way into the kitchen and sat himself on the kitchen table, his legs dangling like a child on a garden wall. He raised his shoulders with a what-can-you-do? expression, and blinked at John. John blinked back. The kitchen floor was sodden with water.

"What the _hell_ have you done?" John splashed his way into the room.

"It wasn't me." Sherlock protested indignantly. "It was that thing over there." He pointed with a shaking finger towards the corner of the room where the washing machine stood proudly spewing water and soap suds. John fought back a cry of despair. He moved quickly and switched the machine off at the mains, then headed to the pantry and grabbed the mop. Sherlock studied him closely.

"It's called a mop," John snapped angrily.

"Yes, I know! Rude!"

"Don't just sit there, go and get some towels!"

Sherlock jumped from the table with a splash and headed down the corridor towards the bathroom. John muttered under his breath as he began to soak up the water. He prayed that the water hadn't seeped downstairs into Mrs Hudson's rooms. John hated himself for feeling like this was somehow his fault. Sherlock re-entered the room looking proud of himself for finding the towels. They were snatched from him and John began to splay them around the room. He returned to the mop and began to move it around vigorously.

"I can't believe...in all of your life...you have _never_ used a washing machine!" He stole a glance inside the machine that was oozing soap around the seal. "There's NOTHING IN IT!"

"Wrong, John!" Sherlock shouted back defensively. "There is a tea towel inside!"

John stopped. He almost laughed. A crazy, deranged, sleep-deprived laugh.

"Why the _hell_ have you washed one tea towel?"

Sherlock scoffed at John and kicked a towel around with his toe.

"Because...I was going to do the washing up. And it was dirty." He folded his arms over his chest defiantly. John's eyes widened in anger and he grabbed a drawer handle, wrenching it open with more force than was necessary. In it, neatly folded, was a pile of half a dozen clean tea towels. Sherlock's face fell.

"Ah..."

John grabbed the detergent bottle and gave it a shake. He frowned.

"This was a new bottle. _Please_ tell me you didn't put in the whole bottle."

"That's what it says there." Sherlock pointed at it with a finger. "That diagram. One bottle."

"That's a cap, Sherlock. 'One _cap_ full'. Jesus Christ!"

John threw the empty bottle on the sideboard and ran his hands through his hair. He was angry; angry at himself for leaving this clearly incapable man to fend for himself. But mainly angry at Sherlock, as John knew deep inside that he had done this on purpose just to prove a point. He took a deep breath and concentrated on drying the floor, all the while being watched by the silent figure in the corner. Sherlock was feeling sorry for himself, John knew, but he wasn't going to cave. He wasn't.

"If this...has seeped...downstairs...you're in...big trouble!" John huffed as he mopped. Sherlock's face fell. It hadn't occurred to him. Weren't ceilings supposed to be waterproof?

Sherlock remained cross-legged on the kitchen table, his island in the storm, while John finished drying the floor. Once it was as dry as he could make it, John wrenched open the windows letting the cold night air in. He then stood with his hands on his hips glaring at Sherlock. Sherlock gave his best apologetic smile.

"So...Kettle?"

John let out a strangled cry of exasperation before storming out the room. Sherlock frowned. Was that a no? He jumped off the table and slipped on the floor as he went after John.

"Ok, so I'll admit, not one of my greatest experiments, but it's sorted now. No harm done."

"No harm done?" John turned to glare at him. "Sherlock it's 3am. I've had to leave my girlfriend, who is probably not speaking to me anymore thank you _very_ much, to come all the way across London because you thought you'd put the washing machine on in the middle of the night for the very first time in your life! What is wrong with you?"

John took a deep breath and studied Sherlock's face. He saw a mixture of indignation, indifference and, what was that? Hurt? Had John upset him?

"I was just trying to show you that I can do this on my own. I don't need your patronising ready meals and taxi money. Just because I don't do these things don't mean that I can't. Or that I shouldn't." He was looking deflated as he played with his cuff. "We were a team John. And you've ditched me. It's just mean. Why would you do that?"

John blinked at him.

"Because...I love Sarah," he told him. Sherlock's bottom lip stuck out sullenly like a toddler.

"I thought you loved me," he mumbled. John laughed loudly.

"I do. Of course I do. But in a different way to Sarah. A _very_ different way!" he stressed. "Look, normal people – dull, ordinary people – have more than one person in their lives. And although you mock it, the reason it happens is because it works. Just because I don't live here anymore doesn't mean we aren't friends anymore."

Sherlock frowned. That's not what this was about, was it? This was about who would clean the microwave now that John was gone, or who would turn the grill off when it had been left on by mistake. It wasn't about friendship. That was so...pedestrian. Sherlock swallowed hard.

"Sherlock, I've had Sarah in my life for a long time now, but if we ever had a falling out, as much as you'd hate it, it'd be you I'd come to."

Sherlock thought on this.

"So when you break up," he ventured, "I'll be the one you move back in with?"

"_If_ we ever broke up, I _might_ move back here. Maybe." John reworded and Sherlock seemed pleased enough. "Do you want to hug it out?"

"No," Sherlock stated flatly.

"Tough." John pulled him in and gave him a quick pat on the back. Suddenly he frowned, and held Sherlock at arm's length. He moved closer to Sherlock and Sherlock leaned away, in a comical tug-of-war movement. John sniffed deeply and frowned.

"Did you...smoke?"

"No," came the too-quick response. John suddenly patted his way down Sherlock's body. Sherlock wrestled him impatiently.

"Stop! Stop that! John get off me!" They broke apart, Sherlock poised ready to deflect another frisking. John eyed Sherlock warily, and began to take a couple of small steps towards the living room. Sherlock copied him, his eyes never breaking from his former flatmate. John dashed suddenly, and Sherlock gave a cry as his friend went marching into the living room and headed for the violin case.

"Don't!" Sherlock exclaimed but it was too late. John had opened the lid and found a packet of opened cigarettes nesting in the soft lining of the case. He snatched them up and put them in his pocket, hoping his face was conveying disappointment. In truth, John really wanted to laugh. Sherlock stood there awkwardly.

"Right...yes...it's probably for the best if you take those away," Sherlock admitted in a low voice. John moved to him and stood with his palm out expectantly. "What?"

"And the rest, Sherlock."

The taller man huffed and headed to his desk. He bent and retrieved a slipper from the floor, and pulled an unopened pack from inside the toe. He handed over the pack reluctantly.

"You're breaking my heart, John."

"I'm a good friend," John replied.

"Hmm."

Sherlock made his way to the sofa and sat down, hugging his knees to his body. He'd been defeated. It was no fun.

"You can leave now."

"I intend to. Good night Sherlock. I'll call you later," John said as he made his way sleepily to the door. "Be good."

"I'm always good, John."

The End


End file.
